


but looking back would ruin this entire work

by JennaCupcakes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Taking a Trip to the Underworld for your Loved Ones, Timeline What Timeline, as bros do, i learned how to spell lieutenant for this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: It's been three days since they buried him.In the time-honoured tradition of grieving lovers, Francis Crozier goes to the underworld to retrieve what he lost.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 25
Kudos: 47





	but looking back would ruin this entire work

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, one is cleaning one’s apartment while listening to Hadestown, and things happen. I blame Rainer Maria Rilke for immortally intertwining death and romance in my mind. The title for this fic, then, is taken from his poem _'Orpheus. Eurydike. Hermes.'_ , written in 1907. 
> 
> I'll take this as my Terror bingo square for 'Francis Crozier'. 
> 
> Don't ask me where in the precise sequence of events this fits for the series. I don't know. I just filed it under: 'This came to me in a dream,' but the dream was more of a 'scrubbing the kitchen counters while your partner is singing Stan Rogers songs'. 
> 
> If, after this, you find yourself with questions such as 'why are you so obsessed with Rainer Maria Rilke, John', 'why did you have to write this, John', or 'surely you've listen to Hadestown enough by now, John', you can leave me a comment or direct those questions to my tumblr at [veganthranduil](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/).

It’s been three days since they buried him. Francis wonders if something so civilized as days still matters out here. How do you measure the progress of time, when your clocks don’t work anymore and the sun comes up when it wants and leaves far too soon, or else doesn’t leave at all?

The days have lost their meaning. What does it matter if James has been dead for three days or three decades? His absence is not something that will change or be altered with time, in fact it has been moved firmly out of the realm of change, and into the realm of invariable, eternal truths. It has become a law of nature.

And still, everything is too bright. Francis’s men are absences of light, dark cut-outs against a white that is surely bright enough to rival Heaven. Francis has to shield his eyes, wishes he still had sunglasses. Maybe then he would feel less exposed.

There is nothing between them and the eyes of God now.

Francis has yet to face the absence in his heart, like an empty chair left behind by James, speaking all the more plainly of that which once was, and is no more. He could not, for three days, because they had to keep going. Now, he is beginning to feel that if he does not sit down and mourn James Fitzjames, it will kill him.

“What’s that up ahead?”

Blanky has sharp eyes, and he knows he has to make up for a lack of sight in their Captain for the time being, God bless him. But now that he’s pointed it out, Francis sees it, too – a point of elevation in the otherwise flat landscape. A cairn – no, not quite.

And, in front of it, a man.

Francis motions for them to halt, but he doesn’t feel alarmed. Maybe he should. The fact that he feels no alarm should cause him more concern but there is something strange about the light, and the man. It calls to him.

The man beckons Francis. Jopson and Blanky both try to stop him, but he waves them off. The man has a dark hood drawn in his face, but as Francis approaches, he realizes this is no Netsilik – the man is European, but not one of their men, and seems utterly out of place here.

“Who are you?” Francis asks, because his good senses haven’t entirely left him.

“Is that really the question you want to ask?”

He’s not standing in front of a cairn, Francis realises. It’s built from shale piled atop each other, but it’s more like a hut, a crude attempt at building a hut the way Netsilik built them from ice. It is unnaturally dark inside the stone hut. The sight makes Francis uneasy, and he averts his gaze.

An absence, he thinks again. An absence of light.

“I…” Francis pauses, stunned. “I would not rightly know what else to ask.”

“You lost someone, have you not?”

Suspicion rises up in Francis’s gut like bile, though there is no logic in it: this strange man, whoever he is, cannot be responsible for the death of James. James’s path was laid for him many years ago, it was set in stone by forces that are beyond the control of one man. But Francis so badly wants someone to blame.

“I… have,” Francis admits. He finds he cannot look at the stranger for too long, either. Whenever he tries to parse the features, something shifts. Like trying to place a familiar face, and failing to, it drives him mad.

“Then what is the question you want to ask?”

Francis fights the urge to turn around and reassure himself that the others are still there. He feels drawn by the absence in front of him, by the man and the darkness of the stones, even while he cannot look at them.

It unsettles him.

“Did I do right?” Francis asks, and does not recall how the words left his mouth, “I killed him, didn’t I? That can’t be right. Did I do right?”

He closes his mouth and tastes something bitter. The taste of his own words, like as not, and so he spits them out.

“He had more desire for life than I do, yet he’s gone,” Francis says, “Where is the justice in that? When it could have just as easily been me?”

The man’s face is impassive, but Francis thinks he can detect the hint of a knowing smile on it.

“You feel you have been treated unfairly.”

“He,” Francis corrects, “has been treated unfairly.”

“Someone so young,” the stranger agrees, “With so much promise and so much life ahead of him. Why should he have to go?”

Their eyes meet. Francis feels out of breath. And then the stranger makes him an offer.

* * *

“I didn’t know islands had caves.”

Jopson sounds unsure. It reverberates in the cavernous tunnel, heightens the shaking in his voice until it is laid bare to all of them.

“This cave isn’t natural, Jopson,” Blanky says. His steps sound the loudest, the clacking of the peg echoing like a drum.

Francis keeps walking.

“Haven’t you noticed we’ve been walking for six miles at least, and we’re still going down?”

The horrified silence from Jopson allows Francis to picture the expression on his face. Another absence that speaks louder than a presence could have.

Strangely enough, it’s not getting warmer as they go.

Blanky protested at leaving most of their supplies at the mouth of the cave. It is a cave – not a cairn, not a stone hut, but a cave, its mouth gaping, its ground sloping downwards. But Francis had explained to him – quite calmly – why they would not need their supplies where they were going.

“Like in the Classics.”

Blanky had frowned at that.

“We’re already walking to our deaths. I see no need to hasten towards it.”

“Not to hasten,” Francis had said, “To bring something back that was unrightfully taken.”

And Blanky had looked at him with those knowing eyes. “Where’s your lyre, then?”

Francis had started walking.

The ground is no longer shale here. It’s dark stone, shining in the lamplight like obsidian. Maybe it is obsidian. It’s awfully quiet, save for their steps. The silence is beginning to make Francis uncomfortable, so he hums a tune – badly, something from an opera he heard years ago – and if anyone recognises it, they don’t comment. Francis couldn’t have said how he remembers it, either.

And still they go down.

* * *

Time doesn’t have meaning down here, and yet they only stop when it is evening by their definition. They huddle together, unsettled by the darkness around them, conserving the oil of their lamps for their walk. Their walk down, and hopefully back up again.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Blanky mumbles, loud enough only for Francis to hear. Francis gives a shrug that conceals his uncertainty as much as it reveals it. Who can say they know what they are doing, down here?

* * *

They rise when their clocks tell them it is morning. There is nothing left to do for them but pretend the things that order their lives still hold meaning. As long as they pretend, they do. And that is civilization.

Around midday, the slope gradually evens, and they all breathe a sigh of relief. They can feel the aching in their legs, and in their minds, not wanting to think about how far they are underground now. If they think about it for too long, they might come to some terrible realisations.

An hour later, they come to the shore of the river.

Most of them have been expecting a river, and it’s a relief to see it – to know there is still a script that’s being followed, the rules passed down in myths they believed fantasy still applicable. It’s something to cling to, like their watches and the days of the week.

The shore of the river is shale but darker, the landscape (in what little of it is revealed in the light of their lamps) similar to the world they left behind. The water is dark, shines like oil when Lieutenant Little leans over it. Francis gently pushes him back.

“No reflection,” he says, and only then Little comes to realise what he has just seen. Or rather, what he hasn’t.

An absence, Francis thinks.

When he looks back up, there is a boat. A familiar figure stands next to it, gazing at them in horror.

“Why did you come here?” She says in Inuktitut, eyes wide, “Out of all places, why did you have to come here as well?”

For once, Francis has all the vocabulary at his disposal, and yet none of the right words. He opens his mouth, helplessly, then closes it again. He makes an aborted gesture, half apology and half explanation in itself.

Silna scoffs.

“You’ll have to pay me.”

Of course, payment. The Greeks buried their dead with coins over their eyes to pay the ferryman. They are men miles away from any monetary economy, but this bargain predates banks and paper money and Adam Smith. Everything has a price.

Francis fumbles around in his pockets. Again, he knows this burden is on him, as it was his plan that brought them here, but he carries no valuables with him. Beyond vanity. Beyond everything.

His hands close around a small, round object in his pocket. It has a hole stamped into it, quadratic, the metal tarnished with age. A coin.

Of course. Even here, Francis takes a moment to smile. Fitzjames gave it to him.

He places the coin in Silna’s hand carefully, laying apology into the gesture even as his heart urges him onwards. He must go.

They squeeze into the boat. Silna does not get in the boat with them but hands Francis a pole. They lock eyes. She nods, once.

Despite having spent more time at sea than land, Francis has never piloted a boat by pole. It takes him two, three tries to move them forward, unpractised gondolier that he is, and even then, it remains precarious. But the boat sits on the gentle current of the river, slowly edging forward despite Francis’s shaking hands. When he turns around to make sure his men are alright, Francis’s eyes fall on Jopson’s pale face. He looks afraid.

The boat scrapes up on the same rocky shore on the other side. The men are out the boat fast, all of them too grateful to feel solid ground under their feet again for men whose livelihoods depend on water.

Blanky is at Francis’s side in an instant. Francis cannot tell if it is his imagination, or if the man’s leg weighs him down more heavily here. Slowly, keeping close together, they move forward. Lieutenant Little brings up the rear, keeping an eye out behind them.

At the sight of the first shade, Francis finds himself reaching for his gun, but stays his hand in time.

The figure is barely visible against the fog, given shape more by the light of their lamps than anything else. They have no recognisable features besides a profound sadness weighing on their face. Considering Francis for a second, they turn away with a sigh and move on.

Francis feels his heart sink. How will he find James here?

It was foolishness, he thinks. Foolishness that brought him down here.

As if sensing his indecision, Blanky clasps his shoulder.

“No way but forward now.”

Francis nods. “Forward.”

And on they go.

* * *

Someone else has taken up the aria that Francis had been humming on their way down. When Francis turns, he finds it is Bridgens, attempting to comfort Peglar. The shades are all around them now, anonymous and taken by melancholy. It is oppressive, to meet their featureless gaze for too long.

Francis is not sure he could still say where the river was, or the boat they left. This should concern him more than it does, he knows. He is not a man who goes anywhere without an idea of how to get back out– and yet, here he is.

On the next stanza, he takes up Bridgens’ tune.

So do the others, slowly and tunelessly.

* * *

He doesn’t know what it is that draws his eye, only that it falls with the accuracy of a well-placed shot on a break in the fog, another absence – another shade. And then it becomes all-too clear to him quickly, the familiarity of the figure overwhelming. Francis nearly drops his lamp.

The shade is not featureless to him, far from it – the hair is long as it was in life, the proud nose and angular features well-known. Even in the ghostly shape of his body, the outline of his uniform shines through. He looks like James, every inch of him. Except for the eyes, which are empty.

Francis hands his lamp to Jopson, then steps forward.

“Hello,” he says.

James turns, but only a little bit. If Francis had not been watching him so intently, he might have missed it altogether.

Oh, but how his heart is beating now. Fast enough for the two of them – for Francis is sure, if he were to place a hand on James’s chest, he would feel no heartbeat there. But he doesn’t touch, not yet. He dare not.

“We came back for you. There’s no need to be afraid.”

He continues in this vein, keeping his voice low but insistent. Bridgens is humming the aria again. The expression on James’s face remains wary.

“You’re alive,” James finally says, and his voice is paper-thin, a whisper of a memory of his resonant baritone in life.

“Yes, we are alive,” Francis confirms. James cocks his head at that, a flash of curiosity showing on his tortured face.

“What is that like?”

Francis takes a deep, contemplative breath and tries to recall the last time he felt alive enough to warrant thinking about it. While he is still contemplating, Blanky steps in.

“More trouble than it’s worth, but somehow we can’t let go of it.”

James nods, as though that makes sense to him, or else he wants it to make sense very badly. He’s always kept a closed face, Francis thinks, and the wispiness of his features only amplifies that.

“What does it look like, where you come from?”

“Brighter than down here,” Blanky quips, which draws a ripple of relieved laughter from their little group, for surely that is the understatement of the century. The sound of laughter puts a little bit of warmth back in Francis’s chest, and he realises with a start how cold it’s gotten.

Again, James nods, accompanied by the pursing of his lips. A shiver runs through his body and Francis steps forward, on instinct.

“Are you cold?”

They lock eyes, and Francis thinks he can see a sliver of something that is James in the eyes of the shade for the first time.

“Yes.”

Francis pulls off his own heavy overcoat and holds it out. James takes it, tentatively, and his eyes widen a fraction when his hand doesn’t pass through it. Francis is also surprised but hopes it doesn’t show on his face.

James drapes the coat over his shoulders. It makes him more tangible, gives him back some corporeality, which comes as a relief to Francis. When he feels a sting in his eyes, he blinks it away angrily, hating that emotion should overcome him now, and here.

James looks back at Francis, and a look of understanding crosses his face. He must have seen the tears.

“Did you know me, then?”

Francis nods, his mouth dry. James’s expression shifts from curiosity to urgency in the span of a second.

“Who was I?”

Francis tries to speak, but is overcome by emotion again, that this man, who once thought the story he told of himself was all there was to him, should lose it all.

“Commander James Fitzjames,” Bridgens offers gently when he realises Francis cannot speak right now. James’s eyes flit over to his steward, and then widen again in recognition.

“James,” he repeats, dazedly. A smile crosses his face, an involuntary twitching of lips. Only Francis catches the tear rolling down his cheek, a quick refraction of light in the warmth of their lamps.

“James,” he says again, and Francis nods encouragingly.

“Do you remember me, James?”

James’s eyes focus on Francis, and a little more of him returns to them.

“Francis,” he says haltingly, “Francis Crozier”.

At that, Francis can no longer stop himself – he steps forward and engulfs James in a tight embrace. James stiffens under him, and Francis realises that where their skin touches, James’s flesh is horribly cold.

Francis lets go. James is still very much dead.

“Would you… ah… would you like to go back?” He curses himself for his lack of oratory talent. “Go home?”

James looks past Francis, at the others, at Blanky and Jopson, Bridgens and Peglar, Little and Golding and Hartnell. They are all exhausted, but it is accentuated down here, as if every ailment that might be their downfall is suddenly a hundred times worse. Only Francis feels fine – tired, but fine.

“I think… I think yes, I think so.”

He takes the hand Francis offers him.

* * *

They come back to the river. Francis tries not to think of the fact that James’s hand in his feels cold and stiff like the hand of a corpse, though his fingers are beginning to feel cold as well. For three days – four days, now? – all he dreamed about was seeing James, holding James one last time, but James’s cold hand in his is a reminder that James did die, and they are not back in the world of the living yet.

Silna is waiting for them on their side of the shore. Her eyes speak of her contempt, as does the set of her mouth.

“You should leave him here,” she says, “What’s there for him up there?”

Francis suspects she is not really here, that it’s not Silna but a manifestation of his guilty conscience that speaks to them, the part of him that knows they’re trespassing, meddling with forces that should not be meddled with.

He tightens the hold he has on James’s hand.

“Forgive me, but I can’t.”

James stays close to Francis, as though fearing she will force him to stay if Francis does not follow her advice. He seems more and more material, as though the warmth of Francis’s coat is giving him life. Francis, without one, is beginning to shiver quite badly.

Silna looks furious with them, but she directs them to the boat once more. As she hands Francis the pole, she doesn’t let go of it for a second, but instead uses it to draw him in.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Francis doesn’t respond.

* * *

It must be nearing evening as they reach the slope of the tunnel that leads back up into the world, but no one wants to stop and rest. They all feel the urgency of their climb now, as though whatever is behind them is slowly but inexorably pursuing them upwards, though no one has turned to look behind.

James is staggering along slowly at Francis’s side, all too reminiscent of his last days, and though Francis helps him along as best he can, the exhaustion hits him worst of all. For every metre they make, James becomes more corporeal, and weaker.

“Why did you come back for me?”

Along with his corporeality, James is regaining his sense of self. His eyes seem clearer, and they are fixed on Francis with a desperate air.

“Francis, please, why did you come back for me?”

The others are ahead, Francis has told them to keep going. They needn’t worry about him, they know, and they’re probably a little grateful that they don’t have to look at the ghostly form of Fitzjames for too long.

“I couldn’t rightly leave a man behind now, could I?” Francis says. It’s easier to say it in anger than with the desperation he feels in his heart, the kind that wants to touch James to feel the blood return to his body, to kiss his cheeks as the blood flows back into them.

“Oh Francis,” James says, and Francis cannot decide if it is love or pity that he hears.

They keep walking, until James stumbles.

He falls face first, only brings out his arms at the last second to catch himself. Francis is by his side in an instant, turning him gently and helping him sit up. Even with the coat, James is shaking, and he feels terribly light in Francis’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” James says.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Francis responds adamantly. James smiles at the show of Francis’s trademark mulishness. Francis leans down to kiss him.

The kiss is familiar enough to feel right, like something Francis should have done a long time ago. James closes his eyes and leans into it, opening his lips. Francis sighs, not minding the coldness of James’s lips anymore. He presses in closer, and finds that James is equally desperate to get close to him. Between them, they have more warmth than each of them has alone. They separate reluctantly.

“You’re not…” Francis finds he is panting.

“I know,” James says, a pained expression crossing his face.

_Not breathing._

They get back up, Francis with shaking hands and James on shaky legs. Francis lets James put an arm around his shoulders as they walk, eventually catching up to the others, who are waiting for them a little up ahead. They do not turn to look around, but Blanky calls out – “Crozier, is that you?” – and Francis confirms it is indeed them.

And on they go.

* * *

When the breath returns to James, it’s a shallow, sad affair, as though each lungful of air he takes in hurts him. Francis still listens for every single inhalation, precious evidence of the fact that James is now once more closer to life than death.

“Not long now,” Francis says, “We’re almost out. Can you feel it?”

Truth be told, he stops caring about what he is saying, so long as a voice breaks the silence. They all take turns, until they’re all out of stories and silence falls once more.

That is when James stumbles for the second time.

Francis isn’t paying as much attention as he should, and so James, with his larger frame, brings them both down. The stone is hard and unforgiving, it bruises Francis’s knee and scrapes his forearm. He remains stunned for a moment while James rights himself hastily and helps Francis back into a sitting position. Their eyes meet, and Francis sees fear on James’s face.

“Are you sure this is right?”

There is urgency in the look James gives Francis.

“I am positive,” Francis says, taking James’s face between his hands. “Come on, it’s not long now.”

He motions to the others. “Keep walking.”

Even they must be feeling the cold by now – different from the Arctic cold, this one is a cold that is impossible to shake even through physical exercise. It lays itself over bones, freezes joints and makes movements slow and sluggish, like in a particularly horrid dream. Apart from Francis, no one is healthy enough to bear this for much longer.

The others stagger on.

Francis turns back to James.

“Please, James,” he says, “It’s not long now.”

“Francis…” James looks as though it pains him endlessly to speak these words. “This isn’t right.”

“And who are you to say that?” Francis demands. He takes their progress thus far as evidence that it is indeed right what he is doing. He has never felt more right than with James back at his side.

James shakes his head. He feels so blessedly warm under Francis’s hands, Francis is having a hard time letting go of him, and so he doesn’t.

“It hurts, Francis.”

“Not for long now.”

Francis strokes his hair, presses a kiss to his forehead. In doing so he hears, rather than sees, the sob that leaves James’s mouth. He shushes him.

“I have you, James.”

“You are incorrigible,” James accuses him, and he doesn’t sound entirely happy about it. The fondness in his voice mingles with dread. “Will you not listen to what I have to say?”

“I killed you,” Francis says, and he cannot look him in the eye.

“No, you delivered me. I remember now.”

James pulls back, forcing Francis to look at him. A queer smile graces his face.

“You are too stubborn. It took my death to have you admit you care for me as more than just a brother.”

It’s Francis’s turn to sob. He presses his fist against his mouth, feels his eyes burn again and fights against the tears that threaten to spill forth. James watches the struggle on his face.

“Does it hurt very badly?”

“What?” Francis asks, uncomprehending.

“Being alive,” James answers.

A gentle hand is placed on the side of Francis’s face.

“I don’t hurt anymore, Francis. These struggles are over for me. I am free of them.”

Francis buries his face in James’s shoulder, muffles his next sob. How is it James, who is comforting him now? He doesn’t want to give up, to leave him here.

“Will you not try?” He says, his breath shaky. “For me, dear James?”

The silence is answer enough. An absence that speaks. But how can Francis be expected to give him up now, when James seems so alive and warm to him?

“I have,” James says, “Francis, I have but I cannot– “

“Shh, it’s alright, then.”

Francis is crying, tears welling up despite his resolve to the contrary, but if this is James’s wish, the least he can do is follow it. Still, he seeks out one more kiss, hungrier down here than he has ever felt up in the Arctic. His hunger, here, is primal. James, under him, is savouring it, and Francis knows it’s because he’s not likely to feel anything like it anymore. The thought of James as one of the featureless, mournful shades down there threatens to tear Francis’s heart in two. But at least he won’t know hunger or pain anymore.

Francis laughs, incredulously.

“I cannot seem to let go of you.”

“You must, Francis,” James entreats him.

Francis presses their foreheads together. Even here, the greatness of James Fitzjames is undeniable, his resolve patent.

“How can I let go of something so sweet?”

“By congratulating yourself that you have even managed to steal from Death itself,” James retorts, “You muleheaded excuse for an Orpheus.”

Francis begins to untangle himself from James, slowly and torturously. It is a daunting task, when not only their bodies but their lives and their fortunes have become so intertwined with each other.

“I thought that if I cannot have the Passage, I will at least have bested Orpheus,” Francis admits.

They stand together, the slope rising to Francis’s right and James’s left. On their other side, the path recedes back into the darkness.

“Your singing voice isn’t nearly as sweet,” James responds, “I’ve heard it, and I’ve found it lacking.”

“If this is how you treat your lovers, I shall be glad to be rid of you, James Fitzjames,” Francis announces. He hopes the jabs will make parting easier, and finds they don’t. But he will not cry again. For James, he will not do this.

“You must live for me, Francis. Promise me that.”

James takes Francis’s hands between his own, and the gentleness of his touch is everything Francis never dared to picture before he found he could not have it anymore.

“Damn you,” Francis mutters, because James knows he will not break a promise to him, not now.

“I promise.”

James kisses him, full of urgency and life that is a lie. Francis winds his hands into the coat he borrowed James, a possessive grip that knows of its own futility. James has to push him back, forcibly, and Francis stumbles a little bit, but he goes. His footsteps fall heavily on the dark stone.

After three steps, he pauses, and turns around.

James has turned and is walking back down the tunnel, already nearly out of the light of Francis’s lamp, his back straight and his steps sure.

“My coat,” Francis calls.

James turns. Meeting his eyes again almost tears Francis’s heart out. James doesn’t look like a man who wants to leave, but one who does so anyway, out of more good sense than Francis possesses. He looks tall and proud as he did in life, with that set of determination to his lips that Francis wishes he could have seen more often.

James comes back to him and helps Francis slip into the coat with gentle hands, buttoning it back up fastidiously. Francis inhales his scent, indulging himself even though it hurts.

“Be safe out there,” James tells him, “And don’t forget your promise.”

Francis won’t. He will stand on the path for a minute longer, but after that he will turn around and make the rest of the climb back into the world of the living, and when he returns to the surface, he will find the man by the cairn gone, and his companions resting. He will urge them onwards, into a future he cannot yet see, and maybe they will prevail, or maybe they won’t.

But for now, he stands on a path and watches James Fitzjames disappear into the darkness, savouring the exquisite bittersweetness of the moment, the taste of their last kiss still on his lips.

* * *

_Far away,  
dark before the shining exit-gates,  
someone or other stood, whose features were  
unrecognizable. He stood and saw  
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,  
with a mournful look, the god of messages  
silently turned to follow the small figure  
already walking back along the path._

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke,_ Orpheus. Eurydike. Hermes.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here's my collection of Orpheus-inspired media. Yes, I listened to _Che farò senza Euridice_ about 500 times while writing this.
> 
> [Orpheus. Eurydike. Hermes. – Rainer Maria Rilke, 1907](http://www.memory-fish.com/burt/poetry/misc/rilke.html) (This one has a mediocre translation of the original German.)
> 
> [Ich Wollte Wie Orpheus Singen – Reinhard Mey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCWRHVNTMV4) (Sue me for liking kitschy German music.)
> 
> [Che farò senza Euridice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8dIevs0VlU)
> 
> [Hadestown](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Hgt5M9dfWySUUZcBeDyvf?si=yWlk1Hh_SIyysdGRxknLMQ) (Which is all I ever talk about in my author's notes, apparently.)
> 
> And lastly, [this tumblr post](https://hgk477.tumblr.com/post/187209524924/how-to-bring-someone-back-from-the-dead) detailing how to bring somebody back from the dead.


End file.
